


An Unconventional Relationship

by Bold_as_Brass



Series: An Unconventional Affair [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Frottage, Hand Jobs, Humor, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bold_as_Brass/pseuds/Bold_as_Brass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft pops in to Baker Street for a cup of tea and a spot of frottage; it's not as though it's the strangest thing that's happened to John that week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When John awoke he somehow knew Mycroft was in the flat, there was a particular quality to the silence, an atmosphere of sibling discord. He slung on his dressing gown and shuffled down to the living room, rather early morning and a bit squinty, to find out if he was needed to referee. It was past eleven, but they hadn’t got back until three: combination of weekend traffic and a moment’s inattention around Bristol meant they’d spent much of the afternoon driving around Cardiff’s one way system.

Sure enough, the brothers were facing off across the hearth. Sherlock, fully dressed and looking spruce, sat in his usual chair while Mycroft, impeccably turned out as normal but with a weariness around his eyes and mouth, had commandeered John’s. It was too small for him; a long length of thigh overshot the seat, perfectly parallel to the floor.

“Good morning, John,” said Mycroft breaking the silence, “a pleasant weekend?”

“Oh you know,” said John making a beeline for the kettle. “Hounds, hallucinogenics, the usual.”

Sherlock gave a little puff of air which quite clearly said: oh you’re not _still_ going on about the hallucinogenics are you? John shot him a look back which equally clearly said: yes I am, thank you Sherlock, seeing as it was _only the day before yesterday_. Mycroft watched the exchange with an air of polite, and almost certainly feigned, incomprehension.

The fridge was in remarkably good state: milk, butter, even some eggs. Mrs Hudson, bless her, must have had a clean out while they were away. Judging by the pink marigold gloves and jar of expensive hand cream by the sink she’d also done the washing up.

“We need to pay Mrs Hudson for the shopping,” he called to Sherlock.

“Did it already,” said Sherlock.

John frowned and popped his head back into the living room. “Sherlock, that was last month. We have to do it everytime she buys us stuff.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock slightly chagrined for once. “All right.”

Mycroft gave a sly smile at his brother’s discomfiture so John frowned at him too, so as not to show favouritism, then relented as the kettle boiled. “Tea, anyone?”

“Black, no sugar, thank you.” said Mycroft.

“That’s not tea, that’s penance,” said John. “Sherlock?”

“Please,” said Sherlock. Despite Mycroft’s presence he was in fine good form this morning, eyes snapping, each hair on his head cracking with life, still exhilarated from surviving their escapades on the moor. It had been good to get out of London, away from Irene's invisible but lingering presence, just Sherlock and him, solving crimes, doing what they did best.

Drinks made and distributed, John found a place on the coffee table, sat down with his nice mug of tea and contemplated the cheering possibility of scrambled eggs on toast. When he looked up he was being regarded with intense, unblinking scrutiny from both sides of the room.

Triangulated by Holmses, he thought. This is odd.

“So,” he said. “Mycroft. To what do we owe this pleasure?” Bar their clandestine meeting at Speedy's, John hadn't seen him for months. The hypothetical riding lesson hadn't materialised; he'd wavered between relief and disappointment but then there'd been Jeanette and he'd put Mycroft to the back of his mind in a box marked 'probably not a good idea.'

“Some property of mine appears to have found its way into Sherlock’s possession,” said Mycroft rather waspishly. “I was reclaiming it.”

“Right,” said John. The Baskerville key card. Less said about that the better.

“In addition,” Mycroft began.

“Mycroft’s-” Sherlock burst out at the same instant.

The brothers exchanged glances. A brief battle was fought and apparently won, Sherlock rolling his eyes and looking away first.

“We have intelligence to suggest that James Moriarty is once again at large,” said Mycroft tightly.

“Really,” said John. He glanced over at Sherlock who was positively glowing. Well that explained his good mood then. Not exhilarated by their encounter with the hound after all, exhilarated by the reappearance of Jim Moriarty. Right. He looked back at Mycroft who pulled down both sides of his mouth in disapproval. For once John was inclined to agree. “If he’s at large now, where was he previously?”

There was an awkward pause. Mycroft became occupied with stirring his tea.

“Mycroft’s not saying,” said Sherlock eventually.

“Oh?” said John and got an eye roll of his own for his slowness.

“He’s had him stashed away somewhere, haven’t you brother?” said Sherlock.

Mycroft continued stirring, his expression sour.

“Anyway,” said Sherlock. “Never mind that. I need you to talk to the homeless network.”

“Where will you be?” said John putting thoughts of scrambled eggs regretfully to one side.

“I’m going to Lambeth to have a look at-“

“You will not attempt to find James Moriarty,” said Mycroft.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Sherlock. “This is a real opportunity to-"

“You will _stay away_ from James Moriarty,” said Mycroft. He didn’t raise his voice; he barely raised his gaze from his cup. Nonetheless the words fell like a whip crack.

In the silence that followed the only noise was the sound of his stirring spoon.

“Or what?” said Sherlock. He sounded curious rather than annoyed.

“Or you and Doctor Watson will find out just how dim a view Her Majesty’s Government takes of unauthorised intruders into her top secret research laboratories,” said Mycroft. He drained his cup with a sharp jerk of his chin and replaced it with the smallest clink onto his saucer.

John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock: _Think he means it?_   Sherlock tossed his head in reply: _Who knows?_

“Ok,” said John, once the pause had extended far beyond the comfortable. “Well. Cheers for letting us know, Mycroft. Sherlock, we need to get the Landrover back by twelve.”

“Would you mind?” said Mycroft, smooth and polished once more. “It is causing rather an obstruction and Boris does get so crotchety if traffic is impeded.”

“I’ll go,” said Sherlock. “Do try to be gone before I’m back, Mycroft.” He scooped up the keys from the mantelpiece and swept from the room and down the stairs in a clatter of indignant heels.

“Well that went well,” said John as the front door slammed. “What’s going on?”

“I’m afraid John, I’m not at liberty to disclose,” Mycroft took a Blackberry from an inside pocket, tapped on it for a few moments then slipped it away. With Sherlock's exit some of his tension had eased but the lines of strain around his eyes lingered.

“It won’t stop him you know,” said John, “Sherlock.” He gathered up the empty cups and took them over to the sink.“Moriarty’s like catnip to him.”

“I know,” said Mycroft. He stood and with one easy stride crossed the hearth, took possession of Sherlock’s chair and settled into it. It fitted him far better. “Still I may have bought a little time." He sighed, "I fear John, we are in the eye of the storm.”

“Oh,” said John. “Well that’s comforting. Another cup of tea?”

“I thought you might be rather more concerned.”

John shrugged. “Is the world going to end before I have my breakfast?”

“No,” Mycroft admitted after a moment’s consideration, “probably not.”

“How about someone kidnapping me and wrapping me in Semtex?”

“I shall do my utmost to prevent it.”

“In that case I’m going to have my breakfast first and worry about it later.”

“I applaud your _sang-froid_ ,” said Mycroft. “I don’t suppose you have any lemon for the tea?”

“You’d suppose right,” said John. He opened the fridge, found the eggs and some butter and placed them on the side. There was a fresh loaf in the bread bin; Mrs Hudson was a saint. He cut a few slices and put them in the toaster.

“You been busy then?” he said, cutting off a chunk of butter and setting it on the heat to melt.

“Exceedingly,” said Mycroft. “It’s been a trying few months all told.”

“Oh?” said John, but Mycroft simply rested his chin on his hand, apparently content to take a few minute's break from matters of Government to watch John make his breakfast. John could feel the weight of his gaze through the thick fabric of the dressing gown. He resisted the sudden urge to scratch his bum and found a clean bowl instead.

“I see my brother’s rather casual approach to underwear has worn off,” Mycroft observed.

John checked his belt automatically but it was securely tied. “Go on, then,” he said. “Something in the way I walk?”

There was a low chuckle from the living room. “You don’t walk John, you march. It would take far more than a lack of underwear to change that. No. If you were more conventionally clad, you’d have sat on the sofa but it’s a little low to risk in your current sartorial state so you chose the coffee table instead.”

John cracked the eggs into the bowl and whisked them. “Well,” he said, “the thing is you see, someone stole my best pair of pants.”

Mycroft did laugh at that. Not his usual polite trill but a full throated gurgle. “A most heinous larceny,” he said. “You should insist they recompense you.”

“Er, ok,” said John. He hadn’t actually been fishing for replacements but on the other hand free underwear, no shopping required, sounded like a good deal. “I’d like some more pants please. Nothing fancy, M&S is fine.”

“Of course,” said Mycroft. He took out his phone and began tapping once more.

“ _Men’s_ pants,” John added. He still had his suspicions about Mycroft in that particular area. “Boxers for preference.”

“Noted,” said Mycroft. He put the phone away and came to stand by the kitchen door. “I think your butter is browning,” he said.

“You’ve got a good nose,” said John and turned it off.

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “That is something Sherlock and I do have in common.” He watched as John added milk, salt and pepper to the eggs and beat them together. “Do you like truffles, John?”

“Erm,” said John, his Mum had always used to buy him a box of Thorntons rum truffles for Christmas which had been very nice. “The fungus you mean?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “The most sublime breakfast in the world is made with eggs from the Marens chicken which have been stored for two days with a fresh black Périgord truffle. The eggs become imbued with the truffle's scent. They are at their best when beaten with just a spoonful of thick Normandy cream, and stirred over a low fire until softly set.” He closed his eyes for a moment in silent reverie.

“Right,” said John. “Never tried it.” He looked down at his suddenly inadequate eggs. Maybe he’d just have toast.

“The aroma of the truffle is a strange thing,” said Mycroft reflectively. “Musky. Earthy. Almost overwhelmingly pungent.” He examined a few of the instruments on the kitchen table, picked up a small bottle of solution, shook it until it changed colour then put it down. “Yet some people cannot smell it at all.”

“Androstenone insensitivity,” said John, dredging it up from second year medical science.

Mycroft dipped his head in acknowledgement; he’d rounded the table and stood only a few feet away. “Of those who can, the split is equal. Some loathe it; some love it.” He smiled, “you may guess the groups into which Sherlock and I fall.”

“You like it,” said John. In his elegant grey suit and shiny Oxford brogues, Mycroft had a full seven inches on him, still John straightened his back and stood his ground. He wasn’t about to be loomed over in his own kitchen even if he were barefoot and wearing only a slightly tatty dressing gown.

“I adore it,” said Mycroft. His gaze dropped to John's mouth. From another man it might have been a coincidence; from Mycroft Holmes it was a flirtation so blatent that John felt a blush heat his soldier's cheek.

“Sherlock’s going to be back soon,” he said. “The car place is only five minutes away.”

Mycroft shook his head. “Hellish roadworks all along the Edgware Road,” he said.

“They weren’t there last night.”

Mycroft smiled. "How very strange," he said and before John could formulate a reply, he found himself swept into an ardent embrace.


	2. Chapter 2

For a moment he remained frozen in place. He was being kissed. By a man. While sober. This was definitely odd.

As unsolicited kisses went it was smoothly done, he had to admit. Mycroft’s breath was scented with tea and his lips were warm and mobile. After a few seconds his hands moved to cup John's head, fingertips massaging lightly into his scalp. John made a small sound, not entirely of protest, and taking this as encouragement Mycroft’s lips parted, the tip of his tongue touching against the centre of John’s upper lip.

A quick peck was one thing but John was having none of that. He kept his mouth shut and the bowl wedged firmly between them. After a second lazy flick of his tongue Mycroft pulled back, one eyebrow raised.

“I…ah,” _don’t kiss blokes_ “haven’t showered,” he said, feeling as transparent as glass.

The nostrils of Mycroft’s not inconsiderable nose flared. “That is in no way a disincentive,” he said and ducked his head.

“No, hang on,” said John retreating until he was brought up hard against the cupboards. “You can’t just turn up here and kiss me, you know.”

Mycroft looked down at him, politely perplexed.

“In the kitchen,” John said, brandishing the bowl of eggs in evidence.

As if in emphasis the bread sprung from the toaster. Mycroft glanced at it with mild bafflement then returned his attention to John, examining his ruffled hair with a slight smile before dropping his gaze to the section of chest revealed by the gaping dressing gown.

“Where would you like to be kissed?” he said, and while John was still trying to decide whether that were slightly flirtatious or decidedly salacious, reached out for the bowl.

John scowled and pulled it away. They wrestled it back and forth for a few seconds in a brief, ridiculous tug-of-war before Mycroft realised John wasn't about to let go. His eyes narrowed. John felt his actions being dissected, analysed and categorised. 

“I was under the impression,” Mycroft said, “that such activities were not unwelcome.”

“Define activities,” said John.

Mycroft rolled his eyes in a way that reminded John irresistibly of Sherlock confronted with one of Scotland Yard’s slower detectives. “Sex, John,” he enunciated perfectly. “I was under the impression that you were not averse to _sex_.”

“Oh,” said John in relief. “Yeah. Sex is all right, yeah. Just you know...” _Not really sure about the snogging._

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in interrogation.

“It would be nice to be asked first,” John finished rather weakly instead.

“I see,” said Mycroft crisply.

John thought maybe he did. He opened his mouth to elaborate or possibly justify – _nothing personal it’s just a thing_ \- but perhaps fortunately before he could, Mycroft had turned heel and stalked into the living room. John winced and waited, expecting to hear the door close and Mycroft’s stately descent down to Baker Street, but there was silence.

“Mycroft?” he said. There was no reply. He frowned, put the bowl down and went to investigate.

He found Mycroft sitting on the sofa, his jacket removed and hanging neatly from the living room door.

“Ok?” he said.

Mycroft didn't respond. Instead he held up his hands, examined them front and back, then slid the heavy gold band from his finger and dropped it into a waistcoat pocket. John watched bemused as the cuff links followed in short order, followed after a moment’s consideration by the tie pin and finally the watch and chain, which were placed on the coffee table. Divested of his finery, Mycroft rolled both sleeves up to the elbow and spent several minutes fussing with them until they were straight and even. The strong morning light streaming in through the windows gave the dense hair on his forearms a distinctly gingery hue. Matches his freckly bum, John thought with a spurt of amusement. Finally, apparently satisfied with his preparations, he arranged himself along the sofa like an emperor preparing to receive tribute. 

"Sit,” he said and flicked his eyes to the space between his parted thighs.

John stuck his hands in his dressing gown pockets and waited. When he’d said ‘ask’ he’d meant ask nicely.

Mycroft sighed. “If you please John, have a seat,” he inclined his head. “I believe this position will provide benefits to us both.”

A slow, warm curl of interest circled in John's belly. “What kind of benefits?” he said.

”Mutual benefits."

It had been a while since John had received any kind of benefits at all, let alone mutual ones. “Budge up then,” he said before he could have second thoughts and parked himself on the sofa between Mycroft's pinstriped thighs.

He expected at the very least some well-mannered gloating at his change of heart but Mycroft said nothing, instead beginning to knead at John's shoulders, rolling his thumbs into tight muscles with practised ease.

“You wouldn’t really throw us in prison, would you?” John said, after a few minutes of silent pummelling had worked him into a more amiable frame of mind. It was easier to ask personal questions when his innermost thoughts weren't being deduced from the shape of his wrinkles.

“If I thought it would keep you out of trouble, I might,” Mycroft sounded rueful. “You were supposed to be a good influence Doctor, not abetting Sherlock in his transgressions.” He paused in his kneading to nip reproachfully at John's neck.

“Not above the collar,” said John, though the sharp sting felt good on his skin. “You’re not actually joking.”

“About being a good influence or about prison?” said Mycroft thoughtfully. John felt rather than saw his smile, the sudden sensual curve of lips against skin. He mouthed his way down to John’s shoulder before answering. “I would of course personally ensure your comfort in any custodial situation which might arise." He paused to test his teeth on the thick muscle of John’s trapezius.

John swallowed; probably shouldn’t find that thought interesting. Probably shouldn't find those teeth stimulating. “Good of you,” he said. "How, um, personally?"

“I’m not a monster," said Mycroft. "A man of strong appetites such as yourself…” he tried the other shoulder, tugging lightly, setting off sparks of sensation that travelled the length of John's spine.

“Yeah?” said John after a longish pause during which his body asserted the truth of that description.

Mycroft relinquished his hold, soothing the stinging flesh with warm wet swipes of his tongue. “Should not be denied an outlet for his natural urges,” he said.

“Which you would…?”

“Cater for, yes. Would you like that?”

There was something about the tone of that last question which made John turn his head cautiously. Mycroft was watching him with bright-eyed intensity, head cocked, unsmiling. Shit, thought John. He isn't joking. One wrong word and I’m going to be chucked into a cell and only let out for conjugal visits.

“Sherlock would do his nut,” he said easily. “Talking of which, you need to get a move on if you want to finish this before he gets back.”

“Why you find such difficulty maintaining a romantic relationship I cannot fathom,” said Mycroft in his normal voice. “Lie back then,” he tugged on John’s shoulders,“since we have so little time to lose.”


	3. Chapter 3

John reclined cautiously. Mycroft’s chest was solid and angular, undeniably male. The warm scent of aftershave, something complex and quietly expensive, surrounded him.

“This isn’t a romantic relationship,” he said.

Mycroft made a very undignified noise, “I had noticed.” His hands began to roam along John's arms and across his chest, exploring the shape of the body beneath the dressing gown. “Do you often talk about my brother during your amorous adventures or am I particularly blessed?”

“None of your business,” said John. He didn’t think he did. Not that often anyway. “Do you?”

“ _Touché_ ,” said Mycroft. His hands slid lower, across John’s stomach, dipping to find and outline the shape of his dick.

John felt himself twitch in response. “Go on then.”

“Yes, most droll,” Mycroft said, but pressed his palm in place for a moment in silent promise, before exploring further along John’s thighs, testing and squeezing the muscles, evaluating their strength. At John’s knee, he circled his fingers over his knee caps, provoking a ticklish squeak, before catching up the hem of the dressing gown and drawing it upward and apart, revealing his erection with the air of a magician producing a rabbit.

“Ah,” he said with a long exhale of delight which stirred the short hairs on the back of John’s neck, “the ever-stalwart Doctor Watson.”

John gave him five seconds to admire the view then cleared his throat meaningfully.

“Always so impatient,“ Mycroft chided but he took John in hand readily enough, weighing him assessingly in his palm, before curling his fingers around the shaft. “Like so?” he said and began to stroke in an easy rhythm, drawing him out, getting to know his responses.

“Mm,” said John. It was a hand job: he wasn’t going to grumble. Equally though, it was a hand job: not really a novel experience for most blokes over the age of puberty.

“Just ‘mm’?” said Mycroft with a note of injured pride. “How would you prefer?”

John shifted and let his thighs, not incidentally, fall open a little wider. “Bit firmer, you won't break me.”

It was weird this, being wanked off by another bloke in his own living room, skull looking at him reproachfully from the mantelpiece. He rolled his head back onto Mycroft’s shoulder caught sight of the skull picture glaring down at him and decided to shut his eyes.

“Like so?” said Mycroft. He began to tighten his grip as he moved up the shaft, finishing with a teasing squeeze just below the head, before gliding smoothly downwards.

“Yeah,” said John. He shifted again then put his feet up on the coffee table, bending his knees and tilting his hips to give easier access. The change of position brought him in closer contact with Mycroft’s crotch. Even through the finest lambswool tailoring and his dressing gown he could feel the unmistakable shape and heat of another man’s erection pressing into his back. He wasn’t sure what he thought about it.

“Or perhaps this?” With the next stroke Mycroft tightened his little finger, providing a slow, undulating wave of pressure which made John forgot to think at all.

“Yeah,” he said, “do that.” He ran a restless hand over his chest and up through his hair before changing position again: something solid and angular was poking into his right hip. He pushed backwards earning himself an appreciative growl and a little extra twist of Mycroft’s wrist. No that was definitely Mycroft’s cock nudging against his arse, his Blackberry was in his jacket; watch was on the table. He shifted again. Something hard and knobbly jabbed him.

He frowned. “Is that a hand grenade in your pocket?”

Mycroft’s hands stilled momentarily. “Why in God’s name would I have a hand grenade in my pocket?”

John shrugged. Stranger things had happened. He groped backwards and found a lump in Mycroft’s trouser pocket. “All right then,” he said and tapped it. “What’s this?”

“Ah,” said Mycroft, “that.” He reached around, resuming work on John’s dick with his other hand in an admirable example of multitasking. “That is,” he paused apparently reading a label, “’rejuvenating honeysuckle crème soufflé.’”

Also known as Mrs Hudson’s hand cream.

“Right,” said John, he opened his eyes and squinted at Mycroft doubtfully. “And what were you thinking of doing with it?”

“Oh I don’t know,” said Mycroft. From less than six inches away there was no mistaking the wicked gleam in his eye. ”What do you think I should do with it?”

John was almost certain that his face remained expressionless but he couldn’t prevent his dick giving a tell-tale twitch at the thought of what a man of Mycroft Holmes’s persuasive powers might achieve with sufficient time and lubrication. He doubted it went unnoticed.

“Well, perhaps something will come to mind,” said Mycroft. “I shall place it here for the time being,” he leant round John and deposited the jar on the coffee table. “Now where were we?” He returned his attention to John’s dick lying fully hard and heavy in his palm. “I understand this area is highly erogenous,” he began working the foreskin a little, playing with it before running his thumb around the band of elastic tissue at the tip, “especially to light touches. Is it?”

“Yep,” said John. He felt the muscles of his stomach jump in response; he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes from the jar sitting nonchalantly in front of him.

“Ah,” said Mycroft. “What’s it called?”

“Preputial ring,” John said automatically. He imagined that Mycroft probably knew that already.

“Mmm." Mycroft circled his thumb a while longer before beginning to massage the skin delicately over the head, stretching it gently to hide then reveal the tip with the air of a magician performing a conjuring trick.

John found himself rocking backwards and forwards with each touch, involuntary little nudges of the hips. Back into the heat at Mycroft’s groin; forward into his hands. Then, as Mycroft began stroking him again, alternating rapid strokes and slow and pausing every so often to cup his balls, he abandoned all attempts at subtlety, planted his feet flat on the coffee table and began to shove greedily, his hands gripping at Mycroft’s legs and probably doing irreparable damage to his knife-sharp trouser creases. A fine sheen of perspiration built on his forehead, the rub of the robe across his chest teased his nipples sending an electric current to his dick, a building pressure under his skin. His heavy breathing was loud in the quiet room.

Unusually quiet room. What had happened to the stream of perfectly pronounced and extremely lascivious questions being murmered into his ear?

He looked over his shoulder to discover Mycroft had bitten into the thick towelling collar of the dressing gown and was worrying at it savagely. Their eyes met. Mycroft for once looked almost abashed. On impulse, John traced a line along his upper lip with his fingertips, offering a substitute. Mycroft abandoned the collar without hesitation latching onto the proffered fingers eagerly. His eyelids fluttered shut as he suckled, tongue lapping against the pads of John’s fingers, his mouth curved in a beatific smile.

He really was ferociously orally focussed.

John watched for a moment longer. _Oh fuck it,_ he thought, _why not?_ He pulled his fingers free and before Mycroft could protest leant over and gave him a bit of a snog.

It was awkward and sloppy -more tongue than lip - pulling on his neck and played havoc with his shoulder but its effect on Mycroft was electric. He made a sound closer to a snarl than a purr, abandoned John’s dick and seized him by the hair, kissing him soundly for half a minute. Then without further warning he tipped John from his lap, stood up and began tearing at his trousers.

“Ok,” said John when he’d recovered his breath. That had been quite something. “Do you need any help?”

Mycroft shook his head, focussed entirely on the task in hand. A single curl escaped the confines of his smooth swept hair and danced across his forehead.

“Right,” said John. The fastening did look fiendishly complicated. He took the opportunity to totter across to the fireplace and turn the skull’s empty eye sockets to the wall. By then Mycroft had conquered his buttons and his erection was thrusting, unapologetically hard and thick, through his fly. The rest of him was still perfectly decently attired in shirt, tie, waistcoat and suit trousers; the overall effect far more obscene than if he’d been naked. John caught a glimpse of remarkably familiar fabric through the gaping fly and cocked his head, “Are those my-“ he began before Mycroft derailed that train of thought by picking up the jar of hand cream and holding it out.

“Would you mind doing the honours?" he said.

“Yeah,” said John taking it without thinking. He couldn’t stop staring at Mycroft’s cock; no wonder he was always so flipping smug. ”Er, what do you want me to do with it, precisely?”

“Do you remember what I said about the Household Cavalry?”

“Impressive stamina?” It wasn’t the length as such…

There was a puzzled pause. “I believe the term I used was magnificent thighs.”

“Oh right.” But it really was quite noticeably girthy. The Household Cavalry must have been bloody heroes.

There was a sigh from somewhere up above. “Doctor,” said Mycroft, a hand under John’s chin tilted it upwards so that their eyes could meet. “Would you care to indulge me? As you previously so charming noted, time is a little short.”

"Indulge you?"

Another sigh. " _Thighs_ , Doctor. I wish to fuck between your thighs.” A pause, then more politely: “If you are agreeable, of course."

“Oh,” said John. Light dawned. “Right. Yeah. Right.”

With a silent apology to Mrs Hudson, he dolloped out a blob of hand cream, rubbed it between his palms to warm it, then with a resolute heart, grabbed Mycroft’s cock and anointed it thoroughly.

Mycroft yelped. “Your enthusiasm is commendable but perhaps a little-" he caught John’s hand between his, slowing it. “Yes. Oh yes indeed. Like so.”

Both of them stood then, watching their hands – John’s: short fingers, broad palm, capable looking, Mycroft’s: longer fingers, one dented by his missing ring, well-kept nails - slide up and down Mycroft’s cock. Emboldened, John tightened his grip slightly, feeling the heat of it, the need, the strong pulse of blood and felt an answering heat coiling up his spine.

“That will do,” said Mycroft without warning and pulled John onto the sofa and back into his lap.

After that things became very hot and slippery very fast. John found the dressing gown wrapped up around his waist as Mycroft’s cock rubbed hot and slick against the cleft of his arse. He fucked energetically into Mycroft’s fist, his skin under the heavy towelling growing sweat-slick and heated as Mycroft frotted beneath him. He could feel the heat of Mycroft’s breath on the back of his neck, the surge of blood in his ears, his muscles beginning to tense, his breathing accelerate, pressure building.

A flash of white caught his eye. A clean folded handkerchief had materialised in one of Mycroft’s hands; it had been ironed and had little monogrammed initials in one corner. The sight of it: so simple and pure and unsullied, waiting for him. pushed him over the edge. His balls tightened and drew up, pleasure shot up his spine, he paused for a second on the brink then, with a shout, came, defiling the handkerchief most thoroughly, his legs clamping together in reflex. Mycroft hauled him around while he was still gasping and kissed the remaining air from his lungs as an answering wet warmth coated his thighs.


	4. Chapter 4

For a while they lay sprawled together; John still half-cocooned in the warm bundle of his dressing gown. One of Mycroft’s hands found its way inside to rest over his pounding heart.

“I must say Doctor,” he said “your regime of exercises has had several most beneficial side effects.”

“Yeah?” said John disproportionally pleased. He yawned until his jaw creaked. “Did you try the er. The er…” _thing _,__ his orgasm-fuddled brain supplied unhelpfully.

“I believe the term you’re failing to find is ‘butt plug’?” said Mycroft with a certain relish.

“Yeah.”

“I did.”

“Right. And how did you, um?”

“Technically satisfactory,” said Mycroft, “but lacking a certain _frisson_ that in more experienced hands…” Perhaps not coincidentally a finger brushed the tip of John’s nipple. “Still,” he added, “it has enlivened several tedious state dinners.”

“Hm,” said John, not sure if he wanted to know about that. He stretched his legs onto the coffee table, knocked over several piles of newspaper and took the opportunity to change the subject. “This cabinet reshuffle going to be a problem for you then?”

If he hadn't been lying across him, he wouldn’t have noticed Mycroft's sudden tension.

“What makes you say that?” His voice was as smooth as ever.

“Last week you agreed us going into Baskerville. Now we're 'unauthorised intruders'. I'm not daft; something's changed.“

“I don’t remember agreeing any such thing.”

John frowned. “But Sherlock said-”

“I think you’d find that remarkably hard to prove.”

John twisted his head, taken aback. Mycroft’s expression was distant, cool. “What?”

“I offered you armed neutrality John, not full diplomatic relations. Do not labour under the illusion that you are fully in my confidence,” Mycroft said and while John was wondering what _that_ meant stood, tipping John from his lap like a cat he no longer wanted to pet.

He landed off-centre and thoroughly disgruntled and was just about to release a flood of invective when he heard the front door slam. “Shit,” he said, “Sherlock?”

"Sherlock," said Mycroft.

John groaned. The room reeked of sex and honeysuckle hand cream. Whatever his blind spots Sherlock could hardly miss it. He grabbed a couple of newspapers, threw open the windows and began fanning fresh air into the room.

“We have a little time,” said Mycroft. He straightened his clothing in an unhurried fashion and reaffixed his cufflinks, tie pin and watch. “He will pay Mrs Hudson first.”

“You sure?” said John wafting mightily.

“Human relationships are his weakness.” Mycroft glanced around then without a second’s hesitation strode across to the bookshelf, removed a biography of Edmond Locard and retrieved from behind it the emergency pack of Silk Cut. In the middle of tapping out a cigarette, he paused to frown at the books, running a finger along their spines. “Has anyone else been here while you were away?”

“Other than Mrs Hudson? Don’t think so,” said John. He abandoned the newspapers as a bad job and hurried into the kitchen to shove the toast back into the toaster.

“I see,” Mycroft lit the cigarette with a sleek, silver lighter and took a hungry drag, inhaling with visible pleasure. “I shall send a security detail around this afternoon, I think. It’s been a little while since your last review.”

“No you won’t,” said John “Sherlock won’t like it.”

The glance that Mycroft gave him in the overmantle mirror was dangerously complicit. “Well then it’s best he doesn’t know about it, don’t you think?” he said and straightened the skull so that it sat in precisely its old position.

It was probably just as well there was only one person in the world Mycroft worried constantly about, John thought. He’d be bloody terrifying if he made a habit of it. “He’s not like you,” he said watching as a thin black line of acrid smoke rose from the toaster.

“Sorry?” Mycroft was shrugging on his jacket, cigarette still dangling from his lip. It gave him a dissolute air.

“Sherlock. He’s not like you. Human relationships aren’t your weakness.”

Mycroft didn’t answer straight away instead removing the cigarette from his mouth to examine the glowing ember. “They call me the ice man, John,” he said.

“Who do?”

“My masters for one; our friend Moriarty, for another.”

“Oh,” said John, not bothering to hide his antagonism, “him.” Just what he needed, another Holmes obsessed with Jim Moriarty. “Well don’t pay too much attention to what he says. He’s off his trolley.”

“Be that as it may,” said Mycroft sombrely, “I would advise you not to underestimate him. He is a very dangerous man.”

“What more dangerous than you?” said John. He meant it as a piss-take, a throw-away comment to erase some of the lines that had settled once more around Mycroft’s eyes, but to his surprise Mycroft gave the question serious consideration.

“No,” he said eventually with a smile that held no humour at all. “I should imagine not." He took a long final drag of the cigarette, held it for a beat then exhaled, disappearing behind a cloud of thick blue smoke. By the time the haze had cleared he was Mycroft Holmes, career civil servant, once more. Holder of a minor role in Her Majesty’s Government. Fussy, middle aged and a little prim. “You should shower,” he said. “I think we have done enough here to muddy the waters but your appearance is quite distinctly post-coital.”

“Right,” said John. He knew a dismissal when he heard one. “I’ll be off then, shall I?”

“I shall see myself out,” said Mycroft. He flicked the cigarette butt into the hearth with an air of finality and turned to the mirror to straighten his tie. Through Saville Row wizardry his suit had survived their escapades unscathed.

“Ok,” said John. It wasn’t as though he didn’t have stuff to be getting on with: write up the Baskerville case for one, buy Mrs Hudson some more handcream for another, have his damn breakfast, still he lingered for a second, watching as Mycroft smoothed back his hair into its usual sleek waves.

“Your ring,” he said.

“I'm sorry?”

“You’ve not,” he waved his hand in demonstration.

“Oh,” said Mycroft. He looked at his empty hand. “Yes of course. Thank you John.”

“All right,” said John and went upstairs. He wasn’t sure if he imagined Mycroft’s eyes watching him in the mirror as he left.

 

* * *

 

He was running the shower, waiting for the water to heat when he heard the door to 221A slam.

“John!” Sherlock announced as he bounded up the stairs. “I paid Mrs Hudson and she’s given us an apple pie. Also Lestrade’s texted. John?” His voice faded as he turned into the living room then returned, louder: “Smoking Mycroft, really?”

Mycroft must have said something, too quiet for John to hear; perhaps Sherlock replied. In either case a few minutes later the front door clicked shut. He didn’t doubt that a black car had at just that second pulled up outside. He got in the shower, raised his face to the spray and thought of nothing at all.

“You’ve burnt your toast.”

John jumped, slipped and almost concussed himself. Sherlock’s voice was very close; he must be standing right outside.

“I know. I’ll have some of the pie.”

“Mycroft’s been helping himself to my cigarettes,” said Sherlock, sounding petulant.

“Well you don’t need them do you?” said John. “You’ve given up.”

Sherlock made a noise which might have been agreement. “Can I come in?”

“Washing,” John said and doused himself in shower gel to make it true.

“Yes, but can I come in?”

“You can wait five minutes,” said John. “What did Lestrade want?”

“Art and Antiques unit contacted him; need some help with a missing painting.”

“Going to take it?” It sounded non-threatening. They were due a bit of non-threatening he felt.

“Don’t know. It’s the kind of thing Mycroft thinks we should do: corporate.”

“Corporate pays the bills.” John rinsed the last of the gel away and began looking for a towel. Miraculously, there was a clean pile neatly folded on top of the bathroom cabinet. Mrs Hudson again. He felt a pang of remorse about the misappropriation of her hand cream. “Is he all right,” he said, “Mycroft? He seemed a bit…” he hesitated. He wasn’t quite sure what Mycroft had seemed, “on edge?”

“Probably dyspeptic,” said Sherlock. “He’s been gorging himself on truffles again. He reeked of them just now."

John thought about that, then dolloped out another blob of shower gel and began soaping himself once more. “Art and Antiques unit this afternoon then? Unless something better turns up.”

“Oh all right,” said Sherlock. His voice was fainter; apparently he’d grown bored with waiting. “You’ve got a parcel by the way. It was on the step.”

“What is it?” Sherlock was always able to tell.

“Pants.”

* * *

 

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. There was apple pie for breakfast followed by a trip to New Scotland Yard. If the flat was swept by security in their absence there was no sign of it when they returned. Sherlock spent the afternoon happily ensconced on the sofa surrounded by glossy antiques brochures, apparently unaware of the debauchery it had played host to that morning while John wrote up the Baskerville case. All in all a peaceful and productive day: John and Sherlock, doing what they did best.

Then that evening Moriarty posted the clip of his visit to Baker Street on John’s blog. And that really was the beginning of the end.


End file.
